


Prestalgia : Yours and Mine.

by outerjaw



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, One-sided afterlife, Post-What Makes The Sky Blue 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerjaw/pseuds/outerjaw
Summary: Like tracing figure eights on ice in skates,Oh well.And if this ice should break,It would be my mistake.To close my eyes and imagine you near.





	Prestalgia : Yours and Mine.

He looks down at his feet— steady and sure, surprisingly, in spite of the conspicuous-looking sheet spread thin beneath his stance. The motion of it is silly, he thinks. It is self-indulgent in the most embarrassing way to step out and catch the skip of his heart in a glide. The movement of his hair in a spin feels too beautiful. But if he can be honest with himself, the true problem he faces is in his consideration that it might be more beautiful on the head of  _ someone more graceful _ . Someone he would rather see the fluidity give justice. But Sandalphon is not intentionally dancing, per se. He is merely caught on the ice. He only wants to cross the open space to the other side of the riverbank, and in losing his balance, catches the faulty movement in a turn.

There is no grandiose show to be seen by any night-walking onlookers. Again, he is merely skating to the opposite side of the frozen river bank. As everyone sleeps, he wants to gather information on their campsite and the surrounding landscape so they might have a smoother journey on foot the following day. Simple. Quiet. But...

With only the illuminating glow of a bright, cold moon, Sandalphon’s gaze travels to the reflection of frozen water and he swears that there is a glimpse of  _ another _ .

When he spins again, eyes frantically searching and his voice carefully calling out, there is no other company by his side. He is alone here, just as he has been before.

But the sight in his reflection remains unchanged. Another is  _ clearly _ standing behind him with... a certain patience, or rather a certain formality, that he could only identify with  _ one other in particular _ . He wonders if the sight might be a hallucination. Could he be losing his mind? Could he be mad with longing? But his resolve in the garden had been so absolute— Sandalphon had gone through a truly painful experience and yet still held himself upright for a handful of seasons thus far. Did something break in his mind? Did his heart only fall apart now?

Someone grips his waist, and just like the river, he too is frozen. But in the face of several empty seconds, Sandalphon places his hands over what he believes are one particular person’s gentle grasp, and when his skin comes into contact with the familiar formation, his throat closes off in fear.

_ Where am I? Have I passed through here again? Or have you come back down from the garden? _

_ No, nothing like that. But if I could share a secret… _

_ A... secret? _

_ Don’t you think skating across the ice is like flying? _

Sandalphon considers it for a moment, but before he can respond, the one who stands behind him is already guiding them into a steady drift. Against his better judgement, Sandalphon closes his eyes, though he makes the effort to face his skating partner, holding onto familiar shoulders. To his surprise, the feeling is absolute, as if his heart had materialized  _ that angel _ from memory alone.

There is a cold feeling on his cheek; it takes a moment for Sandalphon to acknowledge that he is crying, in spite of the fact that he can only smile. A rhythmic hum caresses his ears to engulf the small clearing over the river, and he joins in.

These two voices, as if created in purposeful harmony, take the place of any other question or thought for a long while. Between spins and turns, as far as their limbs might stretch, the two do not separate even once. At the very least, their fingertips continue to touch, even when it seems that they might launch across to opposing sides of the makeshift rink. And indeed, the sight is nearly performative in nature, even if the motions were so privately practiced that any prying eye might go red from the second-hand intimacy.

Against his forehead, Sandalphon feels that someone is leaning, though he doesn’t dare open his eyes. And still he allows the streams to cascade to his chin, cold wind doing little to distract from the dance. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he lets a vocal sob escape, and the response of amused, comforting laughter only perpetuates the ethereal experience. He knows the fingertips that trace over his face. He would lock away that laughter into his memory and recall it on warmer days, when it lives furthest away and out of reach.

_ I told you I’d come home, didn’t I? _

Sandalphon does not receive an answer, perhaps because he does not realize that the hands on his body are imagined, and the voice he hears is plucked carefully from the memory of his dearest partner. While he consciously wants to ask why, of all times, Lucifer might accompany his night, Sandalphon’s heart is already aware of the answer. But this does not stop him from dwelling on his promise, and how much longer they would both have to wait for Sandalphon to come home.

Of course, Sandalphon knew from the moment they parted ways that he would have to wait lifetime after lifetime. There would be endless streams of generations come to pass through him; as encouraging as the phantom on his body might be, it was, in the end, nothing more.

And there are entire years where they do not reunite: Sandalphon and his phantom. He considers that he is all the more strong for leaving his fantasies behind and embracing the unseen future as a Primarch might, only for the intervention of a cold and lonely night to remind him that there is someone awaiting him. There is another life to live after this one: the one he had always pined for. So Sandalphon closes his eyes and allows the phantom to hold him tightly, as no one else does, and no one else ever will.

From a high and empty heaven, Lucifer looks down, admiring the close image that Sandalphon so carefully recreates. Even as hundreds of years come to pass, and Sandalphon is left with only the sparing company of the other Primals, it seems that not a single detail is lost to memory.

Lucifer sees that Sandalphon clings to everything he wishes they could have lived out together: dancing, exploring, flying, crying, and moving forward. In many ways, it is enough to break a heart, if Lucifer’s had not already been broken by a goodbye. Was that not so selfish of him? To be distraught from letting go of someone needed by everyone else?

_ Would you like another cup? _

He looks down from heaven and sees the good that Sandalphon has brought, and he openly weeps, teardrops descending through clouds and swift breezes. His pride, his source of light, his solace—

_Ah, but one day when we can meet again,_  
_I can look at you and say I was never once impatient,_  
_And I was never once saddened._  
_You only brought me happiness in all that you did,_  
_And in the way you’ve never forgotten me._  
_So please smile for me continuously._  
_Please close your eyes and cry from the euphoria..._  
_Just as I do, looking down._

**Author's Note:**

> Prestalgia, like nostalgia for the things that have not yet occurred.
> 
> Cygames has successfully fucked me up and will no doubt continue to fuck me up in the coming years.
> 
> For full effect, I recommend reading this to the song PPP by Beach House, which is what originally inspired me to write it. Please let me know what you think!


End file.
